8/11/2019 WHAT MEN LIVE BY AND OTHER TALES.docx http://slidepdf.com/reader/full/what-men-live-by-and-other-talesdocx 1/35 WHAT MEN LIVE BY AND OTHER TALES By Leo Tolstoy "We know that we have passed out of death into life, because we love the brethren. He that loveth not abideth in death." —1 "Epistle St. John" iii. 14. "Whoso hath the world's goods, and beholdeth his brother in need, and shutteth up his compassion from him, how doth the love of God abide in him? My little children, let us not love in word, neither with the tongue; but in deed and truth." — iii. 17-18. "Love is of God; and every one that loveth is begotten of God, and knoweth God. He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love." —iv. 7-8. "No man hath beheld God at any time; if we love one another, God abideth in us." —iv. 12. "God is love; and he that abideth in love abideth in God, and God abideth in him." —iv. 16. "If a man say, I love God, and hateth his brother, he is a liar; for he that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen?" —iv. 20.
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"I'm quite warm," said he, "though I have no sheep-skin coat. I've had a drop, and it
runs through all my veins. I need no sheep-skins. I go along and don't worry about
anything. That's the sort of man I am! What do I care? I can live without sheep-skins. I
don't need them. My wife will fret, to be sure. And, true enough, it is a shame; one
works all day long, and then does not get paid. Stop a bit! If you don't bring that money
along, sure enough I'll skin you, blessed if I don't. How's that? He pays twenty kopeks at
a time! What can I do with twenty kopeks? Drink it-that's all one can do! Hard up, he
says he is! So he may be—but what about me? You have a house, and cattle, and
everything; I've only what I stand up in! You have corn of your own growing; I have to
buy every grain. Do what I will, I must spend three roubles every week for bread alone. I
come home and find the bread all used up, and I have to fork out another rouble and a
half. So just pay up what you owe, and no nonsense about it!"
By this time he had nearly reached the shrine at the bend of the road. Looking up, he
saw something whitish behind the shrine. The daylight was fading, and the shoemaker
peered at the thing without being able to make out what it was. "There was no white
stone here before. Can it be an ox? It's not like an ox. It has a head like a man, but it's
too white; and what could a man be doing there?"
He came closer, so that it was clearly visible. To his surprise it really was a man, alive
or dead, sitting naked, leaning motionless against the shrine. Terror seized the
shoemaker, and he thought, "Some one has killed him, stripped him, and left him there.
If I meddle I shall surely get into trouble."
So the shoemaker went on. He passed in front of the shrine so that he could not see
the man. When he had gone some way, he looked back, and saw that the man was no
longer leaning against the shrine, but was moving as if looking towards him. The
shoemaker felt more frightened than before, and thought, "Shall I go back to him, orshall I go on? If I go near him something dreadful may happen. Who knows who the
fellow is? He has not come here for any good. If I go near him he may jump up and
throttle me, and there will be no getting away. Or if not, he'd still be a burden on one's
hands. What could I do with a naked man? I couldn't give him my last clothes. Heaven
only help me to get away!"
So the shoemaker hurried on, leaving the shrine behind him-when suddenly his
conscience smote him, and he stopped in the road.
"What are you doing, Simon?" said he to himself. "The man may be dying of want, and
you slip past afraid. Have you grown so rich as to be afraid of robbers? Ah, Simon, shame
he thought of his wife he felt sad; but when he looked at the stranger and remembered
how he had looked up at him at the shrine, his heart was glad.
III
Simon's wife had everything ready early that day. She had cut wood, brought water,
fed the children, eaten her own meal, and now she sat thinking. She wondered when
she ought to make bread: now or tomorrow? There was still a large piece left.
"If Simon has had some dinner in town," thought she, "and does not eat much for
supper, the bread will last out another day."
She weighed the piece of bread in her hand again and again, and thought: "I won't
make any more today. We have only enough flour left to bake one batch; We can
manage to make this last out till Friday."
So Matryona put away the bread, and sat down at the table to patch her husband'sshirt. While she worked she thought how her husband was buying skins for a winter
coat.
"If only the dealer does not cheat him. My good man is much too simple; he cheats
nobody, but any child can take him in. Eight roubles is a lot of money—he should get a
good coat at that price. Not tanned skins, but still a proper winter coat. How difficult it
was last winter to get on without a warm coat. I could neither get down to the river, nor
go out anywhere. When he went out he put on all we had, and there was nothing left for
me. He did not start very early today, but still it's time he was back. I only hope he has
not gone on the spree!"
Hardly had Matryona thought this, when steps were heard on the threshold, andsome one entered. Matryona stuck her needle into her work and went out into the
passage. There she saw two men: Simon, and with him a man without a hat, and
wearing felt boots.
Matryona noticed at once that her husband smelt of spirits. "There now, he has been
drinking," thought she. And when she saw that he was coatless, had only her jacket on,
brought no parcel, stood there silent, and seemed ashamed, her heart was ready to
break with disappointment. "He has drunk the money," thought she, "and has been on
the spree with some good-for-nothing fellow whom he has brought home with him."
Matryona let them pass into the hut, followed them in, and saw that the stranger was
a young, slight man, wearing her husband's coat. There was no shirt to be seen under it,
and he had no hat. Having entered, he stood, neither moving, nor raising his eyes, and
Matryona thought: "He must be a bad man—he's afraid."
Matryona frowned, and stood beside the oven looking to see what they would do.
Simon took off his cap and sat down on the bench as if things were all right.
"Come, Matryona; if supper is ready, let us have some."
Matryona muttered something to herself and did not move, but stayed where she
was, by the oven. She looked first at the one and then at the other of them, and only
shook her head. Simon saw that his wife was annoyed, but tried to pass it off.
Pretending not to notice anything, he took the stranger by the arm.
"Sit down, friend," said he, "and let us have some supper."
Then Matryona joined in. She wondered who this woman was, and whose the
children were, so she said: "Are not you their mother then?"
"No, my good woman; I am neither their mother nor any relation to them. They were
quite strangers to me, but I adopted them."
"They are not your children and yet you are so fond of them?""How can I help being fond of them? I fed them both at my own breasts. I had a child
of my own, but God took him. I was not so fond of him as I now am of them."
"Then whose children are they?"
IX
The woman, having begun talking, told them the
whole story.
"It is about six years since their parents died, both in one week: their father wasburied on the Tuesday, and their mother died on the Friday. These orphans were born
three days after their father's death, and their mother did not live another day. My
husband and I were then living as peasants in the village. We were neighbors of theirs,
our yard being next to theirs. Their father was a lonely man; a wood-cutter in the forest.
When felling trees one day, they let one fall on him. It fell across his body and crushed
his bowels out. They hardly got him home before his soul went to God; and that same
week his wife gave birth to twins—these little girls. She was poor and alone; she had no
one, young or old, with her. Alone she gave them birth, and alone she met her death."
"The next morning I went to see her, but when I entered the hut, she, poor thing, was
already stark and cold. In dying she had rolled on to this child and crushed her leg. Thevillage folk came to the hut, washed the body, laid her out, made a coffin, and buried
her. They were good folk. The babies were left alone. What was to be done with them? I
was the only woman there who had a baby at the time. I was nursing my first-born—
eight weeks old. So I took them for a time. The peasants came together, and thought
and thought what to do with them; and at last they said to me: 'For the present, Mary,
you had better keep the girls, and later on we will arrange what to do for them.' So I
nursed the sound one at my breast, but at first I did not feed this crippled one. I did not
suppose she would live. But then I thought to myself, why should the poor innocent
suffer? I pitied her, and began to feed her. And so I fed my own boy and these two—the
three of them—
at my own breast. I was young and strong, and had good food, and Godgave me so much milk that at times it even overflowed. I used sometimes to feed two at
a time, while the third was waiting. When one had enough I nursed the third. And God
so ordered it that these grew up, while my own was buried before he was two years old.
And I had no more children, though we prospered. Now my husband is working for the
corn merchant at the mill. The pay is good, and we are well off. But I have no children of
my own, and how lonely I should be without these little girls! How can I help loving
them! They are the joy of my life!"
She pressed the lame little girl to her with one hand, while with the other she wiped
the tears from her cheeks.
And Matryona sighed, and said: "The proverb is true that says, 'One may live withoutfather or mother, but one cannot live without God.'"
So they talked together, when suddenly the whole hut was lighted up as though by
summer lightning from the corner where Michael sat. They all looked towards him and
saw him sitting, his hands folded on his knees, gazing upwards and smiling.
X
The woman went away with the girls. Michael rose from the bench, put down his
work, and took off his apron. Then, bowing low to Simon and his wife, he said: "Farewell,
masters. God has forgiven me. I ask your forgiveness, too, for anything done amiss."
And they saw that a light shone from Michael. And Simon rose, bowed down to
Michael, and said: "I see, Michael, that you are no common man, and I can neither keep
you nor question you. Only tell me this: how is it that when I found you and brought you
home, you were gloomy, and when my wife gave you food you smiled at her and
became brighter? Then when the gentleman came to order the boots, you smiled again
and became brighter still? And now, when this woman brought the little girls, you smiled
a third time, and have become as bright as day? Tell me, Michael, why does your face
shine so, and why did you smile those three times?"
And Michael answered: "Light shines from me because I have been punished, but now
God has pardoned me. And I smiled three times, because God sent me to learn three
truths, and I have learnt them. One I learnt when your wife pitied me, and that is why I
smiled the first time. The second I learnt when the rich man ordered the boots, and then
I smiled again. And now, when I saw those little girls, I learn the third and last truth, and
I smiled the third time."
And Simon said, "Tell me, Michael, what did God punish you for? and what were thethree truths? that I, too, may know them."
And Michael answered: "God punished me for disobeying Him. I was an angel in
heaven and disobeyed God. God sent me to fetch a woman's soul. I flew to earth, and
saw a sick woman lying alone, who had just given birth to twin girls. They moved feebly
at their mother's side, but she could not lift them to her breast. When she saw me, she
understood that God had sent me for her soul, and she wept and said: 'Angel of God! My
husband has just been buried, killed by a falling tree. I have neither sister, nor aunt, nor
mother: no one to care for my orphans. Do not take my soul! Let me nurse my babes,
feed them, and set them on their feet before I die. Children cannot live without father or
mother.' And I hearkened to her. I placed one child at her breast and gave the other intoher arms, and returned to the Lord in heaven. I flew to the Lord, and said: 'I could not
take the soul of the mother. Her husband was killed by a tree; the woman has twins, and
prays that her soul may not be taken. She says: "Let me nurse and feed my children, and
set them on their feet. Children cannot live without father or mother." I have not taken
her soul.' And God said: 'Go-take the mother's soul, and learn three truths: Learn What
dwells in man, What is not given to man, and What men live by. When thou has learnt
these things, thou shalt return to heaven.' So I flew again to earth and took the mother's
soul. The babes dropped from her breasts. Her body rolled over on the bed and crushed
one babe, twisting its leg. I rose above the village, wishing to take her soul to God; but a
wind seized me, and my wings drooped and dropped off. Her soul rose alone to God,while I fell to earth by the roadside."
And Simon and Matryona understood who it was that had lived with them, and whom
they had clothed and fed. And they wept with awe and with joy. And the angel said: "Iwas alone in the field, naked. I had never known human needs, cold and hunger, till I
became a man. I was famished, frozen, and did not know what to do. I saw, near the
field I was in, a shrine built for God, and I went to it hoping to find shelter. But the shrine
was locked, and I could not enter. So I sat down behind the shrine to shelter myself at
least from the wind. Evening drew on. I was hungry, frozen, and in pain. Suddenly I
heard a man coming along the road. He carried a pair of boots, and was talking to
himself. For the first time since I became a man I saw the mortal face of a man, and his
face seemed terrible to me and I turned from it. And I heard the man talking to himself
of how to cover his body from the cold in winter, and how to feed wife and children. And
I thought: 'I am perishing of cold and hunger, and here is a man thinking only of how toclothe himself and his wife, and how to get bread for themselves. He cannot help me.'
When the man saw me he frowned and became still more terrible, and passed me by on
the other side. I despaired; but suddenly I heard him coming back. I looked up, and did
not recognize the same man; before, I had seen death in his face; but now he was alive,
and I recognized in him the presence of God. He came up to me, clothed me, took me
with him, and brought me to his home. I entered the house; a woman came to meet us
and began to speak. The woman was still more terrible than the man had been; the
spirit of death came from her mouth; I could not breathe for the stench of death that
spread around her. She wished to drive me out into the cold, and I knew that if she did
so she would die. Suddenly her husband spoke to her of God, and the woman changedat once. And when she brought me food and looked at me, I glanced at her and saw that
death no longer dwelt in her; she had become alive, and in her, too, I saw God.
"Then I remembered the first lesson God had set me: 'Learn what dwells in man.' And
I understood that in man dwells Love! I was glad that God had already begun to show
me what He had promised, and I smiled for the first time. But I had not yet learnt all. I
did not yet know What is not given to man, and What men live by.
"I lived with you, and a year passed. A man came to order boots that should wear for
a year without losing shape or cracking. I looked at him, and suddenly, behind his
shoulder, I saw my comrade—the angel of death. None but me saw that angel; but I
knew him, and knew that before the sun set he would take that rich man's soul. And Ithought to myself, 'The man is making preparations for a year, and does not know that
he will die before evening.' And I remembered God's second saying, 'Learn what is not
given to man.'
"What dwells in man I already knew. Now I learnt what is not given him. It is not given
to man to know his own needs. And I smiled for the second time. I was glad to have seen
my comrade angel—glad also that God had revealed to me the second saying.
"But I still did not know all. I did not know What men live by. And I lived on, waiting till
God should reveal to me the last lesson. In the sixth year came the girl-twins with the
woman; and I recognized the girls, and heard how they had been kept alive. Having
heard the story, I thought, 'Their mother besought me for the children's sake, and I
believed her when she said that children cannot live without father or mother; but a
stranger has nursed them, and has brought them up.' And when the woman showed her
love for the children that were not her own, and wept over them, I saw in her the living
God and understood What men live by. And I knew that God had revealed to me the last
lesson, and had forgiven my sin. And then I smiled for the third time."
XII
And the angel's body was bared, and he was clothed in light so that eye could not look
on him; and his voice grew louder, as though it came not from him but from heaven
above. And the angel said:
"I have learnt that all men live not by care for themselves but by love.
"It was not given to the mother to know what her children needed for their life. Norwas it given to the rich man to know what he himself needed. Nor is it given to any man
to know whether, when evening comes, he will need boots for his body or slippers for
his corpse.
"I remained alive when I was a man, not by care of myself, but because love was
present in a passer-by, and because he and his wife pitied and loved me. The orphans
remained alive not because of their mother's care, but because there was love in the
heart of a woman, a stranger to them, who pitied and loved them. And all men live not
by the thought they spend on their own welfare, but because love exists in man.
"I knew before that God gave life to men and desires that they should live; now I
understood more than that."I understood that God does not wish men to live apart, and therefore he does not
reveal to them what each one needs for himself; but he wishes them to live united, and
therefore reveals to each of them what is necessary for all.
"I have now understood that though it seems to men that they live by care for
themselves, in truth it is love alone by which they live. He who has love, is in God, and
God is in him, for God is love."
And the angel sang praise to God, so that the hut trembled at his voice. The roof
opened, and a column of fire rose from earth to heaven. Simon and his wife and children
fell to the ground. Wings appeared upon the angel's shoulders, and he rose into the
heavens.
And when Simon came to himself the hut stood as before, and there was no one in it
It once occurred to a certain king, that if he always knew the right time to begin
everything; if he knew who were the right people to listen to, and whom to avoid; and,
above all, if he always knew what was the most important thing to do, he would never
fail in anything he might undertake.
And this thought having occurred to him, he had it proclaimed throughout his
kingdom that he would give a great reward to any one who would teach him what was
the right time for every action, and who were the most necessary people, and how he
might know what was the most important thing to do.
And learned men came to the King, but they all answered his questions differently.
In reply to the first question, some said that to know the right time for every action,
one must draw up in advance, a table of days, months and years, and must live strictly
according to it. Only thus, said they, could everything be done at its proper time. Othersdeclared that it was impossible to decide beforehand the right time for every action; but
that, not letting oneself be absorbed in idle pastimes, one should always attend to all
that was going on, and then do what was most needful. Others, again, said that however
attentive the King might be to what was going on, it was impossible for one man to
decide correctly the right time for every action, but that he should have a Council of
wise men, who would help him to fix the proper time for everything.
But then again others said there were some things which could not wait to be laid
before a Council, but about which one had at once to decide whether to undertake them
or not. But in order to decide that, one must know beforehand what was going to
happen. It is only magicians who know that; and, therefore, in order to know the righttime for every action, one must consult magicians.
Equally various were the answers to the second question. Some said, the people the
King most needed were his councillors; others, the priests; others, the doctors; while
some said the warriors were the most necessary.
To the third question, as to what was the most important occupation: some replied
that the most important thing in the world was science. Others said it was skill in
warfare; and others, again, that it was religious worship.
All the answers being different, the King agreed with none of them, and gave the
reward to none. But still wishing to find the right answers to his questions, he decided to
consult a hermit, widely renowned for his wisdom.
The hermit lived in a wood which he never quitted, and he received none but
common folk. So the King put on simple clothes, and before reaching the hermit's cell
dismounted from his horse, and, leaving his body-guard behind, went on alone.
When the King approached, the hermit was digging the ground in front of his hut.
Seeing the King, he greeted him and went on digging. The hermit was frail and weak, and
each time he stuck his spade into the ground and turned a little earth, he breathed
heavily.
The King went up to him and said: "I have come to you, wise hermit, to ask you to
answer three questions: How can I learn to do the right thing at the right time? Who are
the people I most need, and to whom should I, therefore, pay more attention than to
the rest? And, what affairs are the most important, and need my first attention?"
The hermit listened to the King, but answered nothing. He just spat on his hand and
recommenced digging.
"You are tired," said the King, "let me take the spade and work awhile for you.""Thanks!" said the hermit, and, giving the spade to the King, he sat down on the
ground.
When he had dug two beds, the King stopped and repeated his questions. The hermit
again gave no answer, but rose, stretched out his hand for the spade, and said:
"Now rest awhile-and let me work a bit."
But the King did not give him the spade, and continued to dig. One hour passed, and
another. The sun began to sink behind the trees, and the King at last stuck the spade
into the ground, and said:
"I came to you, wise man, for an answer to my questions. If you can give me none, tell
me so, and I will return home."
"Here comes some one running," said the hermit, "let us see who it is."
The King turned round, and saw a bearded man come running out of the wood. The
man held his hands pressed against his stomach, and blood was flowing from under
them. When he reached the King, he fell fainting on the ground moaning feebly. The
King and the hermit unfastened the man's clothing. There was a large wound in his
stomach. The King washed it as best he could, and bandaged it with his handkerchief
and with a towel the hermit had. But the blood would not stop flowing, and the King
again and again removed the bandage soaked with warm blood, and washed and
rebandaged the wound. When at last the blood ceased flowing, the man revived andasked for something to drink. The King brought fresh water and gave it to him.
Meanwhile the sun had set, and it had become cool. So the King, with the hermit's help,
carried the wounded man into the hut and laid him on the bed. Lying on the bed the
man closed his eyes and was quiet; but the King was so tired with his walk and with the
work he had done, that he crouched down on the threshold, and also fell asleep—so
soundly that he slept all through the short summer night. When he awoke in the
morning, it was long before he could remember where he was, or who was the strange
bearded man lying on the bed and gazing intently at him with shining eyes.
"Forgive me!" said the bearded man in a weak voice, when he saw that the King was
awake and was looking at him."I do not know you, and have nothing to forgive you for," said the King.
"You do not know me, but I know you. I am that enemy of yours who swore to
revenge himself on you, because you executed his brother and seized his property. I
knew you had gone alone to see the hermit, and I resolved to kill you on your way back.
But the day passed and you did not return. So I came out from my ambush to find you,
and I came upon your bodyguard, and they recognized me, and wounded me. I escaped
from them, but should have bled to death had you not dressed my wound. I wished to
kill you, and you have saved my life. Now, if I live, and if you wish it, I will serve you as
your most faithful slave, and will bid my sons do the same. Forgive me!"
"How can you say that salvation belongs to your religion? Those only will be saved,
who serve God according to the Gospel, in spirit and in truth, as bidden by the word of
Christ."
Then a Turk, an office-holder in the custom-house at Surat, who was sitting in the
coffee-house smoking a pipe, turned with an air of superiority to both the Christians.
"Your belief in your Roman religion is vain," said he. "It was superseded twelve
hundred years ago by the true faith: that of Mohammed! You cannot but observe how
the true Mohammed faith continues to spread both in Europe and Asia, and even in the
enlightened country of China. You say yourselves that God has rejected the Jews; and, as
a proof, you quote the fact that the Jews are humiliated and their faith does not spread.
Confess then the truth of Mohammedanism, for it is triumphant and spreads far and
wide. None will be saved but the followers of Mohammed, God's latest prophet; and of
them, only the followers of Omar, and not of Ali, for the latter are false to the faith."
To this the Persian theologian, who was of the sect of Ali, wished to reply; but by this
time a great dispute had arisen among all the strangers of different faiths and creedspresent. There were Abyssinian Christians, Llamas from Thibet, Ismailians and
Fireworshippers. They all argued about the nature of God, and how He should be
worshipped. Each of them asserted that in his country alone was the true God known
and rightly worshipped.
Every one argued and shouted, except a Chinaman, a student of Confucius, who sat
quietly in one corner of the coffee-house, not joining in the dispute. He sat there
drinking tea and listening to what the others said, but did not speak himself.
The Turk noticed him sitting there, and appealed to him, saying:
"You can confirm what I say, my good Chinaman. You hold your peace, but if you
spoke I know you would uphold my opinion. Traders from your country, who come to
me for assistance, tell me that though many religions have been introduced into China,
you Chinese consider Mohammedanism the best of all, and adopt it willingly. Confirm,
then, my words, and tell us your opinion of the true God and of His prophet."
"Yes, yes," said the rest, turning to the Chinaman, "let us hear what you think on the
subject."
The Chinaman, the student of Confucius, closed his eyes, and thought a while. Then
he opened them again, and drawing his hands out of the wide sleeves of his garment,
and folding them on his breast, he spoke as follows, in a calm and quiet voice.
Sirs, it seems to me that it is chiefly pride that prevents men agreeing with oneanother on matters of faith. If you care to listen to me, I will tell you a story which will
explain this by an example.
I came here from China on an English steamer which had been round the world. We
stopped for fresh water, and landed on the east coast of the island of Sumatra. It was
midday, and some of us, having landed, sat in the shade of some cocoanut palms by the
seashore, not far from a native village. We were a party of men of different nationalities.
As we sat there, a blind man approached us. We learned afterwards that he had gone
blind from gazing too long and too persistently at the sun, trying to find out what it is, in
order to seize its light.
He strove a long time to accomplish this, constantly looking at the sun; but the onlyresult was that his eyes were injured by its brightness, and he became blind.
"The light of the sun is not a liquid; for if it were a liquid it would be possible to pour it
from one vessel into another, and it would be moved, like water, by the wind. Neither is
it fire; for if it were fire, water would extinguish it. Neither is light a spirit, for it is seen
by the eye; nor is it matter, for it cannot be moved. Therefore, as the light of the sun is
neither liquid, nor fire, nor spirit, nor matter, it is—nothing!"
So he argued, and, as a result of always looking at the sun and always thinking about
it, he lost both his sight and his reason. And when he went quite blind, he became fully
convinced that the sun did not exist.
With this blind man came a slave, who after placing his master in the shade of a
cocoanut tree, picked up a cocoanut from the ground, and began making it into a night-
light. He twisted a wick from the fibre of the cocoanut: squeezed oil from the nut in the
shell, and soaked the wick in it.
As the slave sat doing this, the blind man sighed and said to him:
"Well, slave, was I not right when I told you there is no sun? Do you not see how darkit is? Yet people say there is a sun.... But if so, what is it?"
"I do not know what the sun is," said the slave. "That is no business of mine. But I
know what light is. Here I have made a night-light, by the help of which I can serve you
and find anything I want in the hut."
And the slave picked up the cocoanut shell, saying:
"This is my sun."
A lame man with crutches, who was sitting near by, heard these words, and laughed:
"You have evidently been blind all your life," said he to the blind man, "not to know
what the sun is. I will tell you what it is. The sun is a ball of fire, which rises everymorning out of the sea and goes down again among the mountains of our island each
evening. We have all seen this, and if you had had your eyesight you too would have
seen it."
A fisherman, who had been listening to the conversation said:
"It is plain enough that you have never been beyond your own island. If you were not
lame, and if you had been out as I have in a fishing-boat, you would know that the sun
does not set among the mountains of our island, but as it rises from the ocean every
morning so it sets again in the sea every night. What I am telling you is true, for I see it
every day with my own eyes."
Then an Indian who was of our party, interrupted him by saying:
"I am astonished that a reasonable man should talk such nonsense. How can a ball of
fire possibly descend into the water and not be extinguished? The sun is not a ball of fire
at all, it is the Deity named Deva, who rides for ever in a chariot round the golden
mountain, Meru. Sometimes the evil serpents Ragu and Ketu attack Deva and swallow
him: and then the earth is dark. But our priests pray that the Deity may be released, and
then he is set free. Only such ignorant men as you, who have never been beyond their
own island, can imagine that the sun shines for their country alone."
Then the master of an Egyptian vessel, who was present, spoke in his turn.
"No," said he, "you also are wrong. The sun is not a Deity, and does not move onlyround India and its golden mountain. I have sailed much on the Black Sea, and along the
the self-denials which loving men and women make for one another? And what altar can
be compared with the heart of a good man, on which God Himself accepts the sacrifice?
"The higher a man's conception of God, the better will he know Him. And the better
he knows God, the nearer will he draw to Him, imitating His goodness, His mercy, and
His love of man.
"Therefore, let him who sees the sun's whole light filling the world, refrain from
blaming or despising the superstitious man, who in his own idol sees one ray of that
same light. Let him not despise even the unbeliever who is blind and cannot see the sun
at all."
So spoke the Chinaman, the student of Confucius; and all who were present in the
coffee-house were silent, and disputed no more as to whose faith was the best.
HOW MUCH LAND
DOES A MAN NEED?
I
An elder sister came to visit her younger sister in the country. The elder was married
to a tradesman in town, the younger to a peasant in the village. As the sisters sat over
their tea talking, the elder began to boast of the advantages of town life: saying how
comfortably they lived there, how well they dressed, what fine clothes her children
wore, what good things they ate and drank, and how she went to the theatre,
promenades, and entertainments.
The younger sister was piqued, and in turn disparaged the life of a tradesman, and
stood up for that of a peasant."I would not change my way of life for yours," said she. "We may live roughly, but at
least we are free from anxiety. You live in better style than we do, but though you often
earn more than you need, you are very likely to lose all you have. You know the proverb,
'Loss and gain are brothers twain.' It often happens that people who are wealthy one
day are begging their bread the next. Our way is safer. Though a peasant's life is not a fat
one, it is a long one. We shall never grow rich, but we shall always have enough to eat."
The elder sister said sneeringly:
"Enough? Yes, if you like to share with the pigs and the calves! What do you know of
elegance or manners! However much your good man may slave, you will die as you are
living-on a dung heap-and your children the same."
"Well, what of that?" replied the younger. "Of course our work is rough and coarse.
But, on the other hand, it is sure; and we need not bow to any one. But you, in your
towns, are surrounded by temptations; today all may be right, but tomorrow the Evil
One may tempt your husband with cards, wine, or women, and all will go to ruin. Don't
such things happen often enough?"
Pahom, the master of the house, was lying on the top of the oven, and he listened to
the women's chatter.
"It is perfectly true," thought he. "Busy as we are from childhood tilling Mother Earth,
we peasants have no time to let any nonsense settle in our heads. Our only trouble isthat we haven't land enough. If I had plenty of land, I shouldn't fear the Devil himself!"
The women finished their tea, chatted a while about dress, and then cleared away the
tea-things and lay down to sleep.
But the Devil had been sitting behind the oven, and had heard all that was said. He
was pleased that the peasant's wife had led her husband into boasting, and that he had
said that if he had plenty of land he would not fear the Devil himself.
"All right," thought the Devil. "We will have a tussle. I'll give you land enough; and by
means of that land I will get you into my power."
II
Close to the village there lived a lady, a small landowner, who had an estate of about
three hundred acres. She had always lived on good terms with the peasants, until she
engaged as her steward an old soldier, who took to burdening the people with fines.
However careful Pahom tried to be, it happened again and again that now a horse of hisgot among the lady's oats, now a cow strayed into her garden, now his calves found
their way into her meadows-and he always had to pay a fine.
Pahom paid, but grumbled, and, going home in a temper, was rough with his family.
All through that summer Pahom had much trouble because of this steward; and he was
even glad when winter came and the cattle had to be stabled. Though he grudged the
fodder when they could no longer graze on the pasture-land, at least he was free from
anxiety about them.
In the winter the news got about that the lady was going to sell her land, and that the
keeper of the inn on the high road was bargaining for it. When the peasants heard this
they were very much alarmed."Well," thought they, "if the innkeeper gets the land he will worry us with fines worse
than the lady's steward. We all depend on that estate."
So the peasants went on behalf of their Commune, and asked the lady not to sell the
land to the innkeeper; offering her a better price for it themselves. The lady agreed to
let them have it. Then the peasants tried to arrange for the Commune to buy the whole
estate, so that it might be held by all in common. They met twice to discuss it, but could
not settle the matter; the Evil One sowed discord among them, and they could not
agree. So they decided to buy the land individually, each according to his means; and the
lady agreed to this plan as she had to the other.
Presently Pahom heard that a neighbor of his was buying fifty acres, and that the lady
had consented to accept one half in cash and to wait a year for the other half. Pahom
felt envious.
"Look at that," thought he, "the land is all being sold, and I shall get none of it." So he
spoke to his wife.
"Other people are buying," said he, "and we must also buy twenty acres or so. Life is
becoming impossible. That steward is simply crushing us with his fines."
So they put their heads together and considered how they could manage to buy it.
They had one hundred roubles laid by. They sold a colt, and one half of their bees; hired
out one of their sons as a laborer, and took his wages in advance; borrowed the restfrom a brother-in-law, and so scraped together half the purchase money.
"You let thieves grease your palms," said he. "If you were honest folk yourselves, you
would not let a thief go free."
So Pahom quarrelled with the Judges and with his neighbors. Threats to burn his
building began to be uttered. So though Pahom had more land, his place in the
Commune was much worse than before.
About this time a rumor got about that many people were moving to new parts.
"There's no need for me to leave my land," thought Pahom. "But some of the others
might leave our village, and then there would be more room for us. I would take over
their land myself, and make my estate a bit bigger. I could then live more at ease. As it is,
I am still too cramped to be comfortable."
One day Pahom was sitting at home, when a peasant passing through the village,
happened to call in. He was allowed to stay the night, and supper was given him. Pahom
had a talk with this peasant and asked him where he came from. The stranger answered
that he came from beyond the Volga, where he had been working. One word led to
another, and the man went on to say that many people were settling in those parts. Hetold how some people from his village had settled there. They had joined the Commune,
and had had twenty-five acres per man granted them. The land was so good, he said,
that the rye sown on it grew as high as a horse, and so thick that five cuts of a sickle
made a sheaf. One peasant, he said, had brought nothing with him but his bare hands,
and now he had six horses and two cows of his own.
Pahom's heart kindled with desire. He thought:
"Why should I suffer in this narrow hole, if one can live so well elsewhere? I will sell
my land and my homestead here, and with the money I will start afresh over there and
get everything new. In this crowded place one is always having trouble. But I must first
go and find out all about it myself."
Towards summer he got ready and started. He went down the Volga on a steamer to
Samara, then walked another three hundred miles on foot, and at last reached the
place. It was just as the stranger had said. The peasants had plenty of land: every man
had twenty-five acres of Communal land given him for his use, and any one who had
money could buy, besides, at fifty-cents an acre as much good freehold land as he
wanted.
Having found out all he wished to know, Pahom returned home as autumn came on,
and began selling off his belongings. He sold his land at a profit, sold his homestead and
all his cattle, and withdrew from membership of the Commune. He only waited till the
spring, and then started with his family for the new settlement.
IV
As soon as Pahom and his family arrived at their new abode, he applied for admission
into the Commune of a large village. He stood treat to the Elders, and obtained the
necessary documents. Five shares of Communal land were given him for his own and his
sons' use: that is to say—125 acres (not altogether, but in different fields) besides the
use of the Communal pasture. Pahom put up the buildings he needed, and bought
cattle. Of the Communal land alone he had three times as much as at his former home,
and the land was good corn-land. He was ten times better off than he had been. He had
plenty of arable land and pasturage, and could keep as many head of cattle as he liked.
At first, in the bustle of building and settling down, Pahom was pleased with it all, but
when he got used to it he began to think that even here he had not enough land. The
first year, he sowed wheat on his share of the Communal land, and had a good crop. He
wanted to go on sowing wheat, but had not enough Communal land for the purpose,
and what he had already used was not available; for in those parts wheat is only sown
on virgin soil or on fallow land. It is sown for one or two years, and then the land lies
fallow till it is again overgrown with prairie grass. There were many who wanted such
land, and there was not enough for all; so that people quarrelled about it. Those who
were better off, wanted it for growing wheat, and those who were poor, wanted it to let
to dealers, so that they might raise money to pay their taxes. Pahom wanted to sow
more wheat; so he rented land from a dealer for a year. He sowed much wheat and had
a fine crop, but the land was too far from the village—
the wheat had to be carted more
than ten miles. After a time Pahom noticed that some peasant-dealers were living on
separate farms, and were growing wealthy; and he thought:
"If I were to buy some freehold land, and have a homestead on it, it would be a
different thing, altogether. Then it would all be nice and compact."
The question of buying freehold land recurred to him again and again.
He went on in the same way for three years; renting land and sowing wheat. The
seasons turned out well and the crops were good, so that he began to lay money by. He
might have gone on living contentedly, but he grew tired of having to rent other
people's land every year, and having to scramble for it. Wherever there was good landto be had, the peasants would rush for it and it was taken up at once, so that unless you
were sharp about it you got none. It happened in the third year that he and a dealer
together rented a piece of pasture land from some peasants; and they had already
ploughed it up, when there was some dispute, and the peasants went to law about it,
and things fell out so that the labor was all lost. "If it were my own land," thought
Pahom, "I should be independent, and there would not be all this unpleasantness."
So Pahom began looking out for land which he could buy; and he came across a
peasant who had bought thirteen hundred acres, but having got into difficulties was
willing to sell again cheap. Pahom bargained and haggled with him, and at last they
settled the price at 1,500 roubles, part in cash and part to be paid later. They had all butclinched the matter, when a passing dealer happened to stop at Pahom's one day to get
a feed for his horse. He drank tea with Pahom, and they had a talk. The dealer said that
he was just returning from the land of the Bashkirs, far away, where he had bought
thirteen thousand acres of land all for 1,000 roubles. Pahom questioned him further,
and the tradesman said:
"All one need do is to make friends with the chiefs. I gave away about one hundred
roubles' worth of dressing-gowns and carpets, besides a case of tea, and I gave wine to
those who would drink it; and I got the land for less than two cents an acre. And he
showed Pahom the title-deeds, saying:
"The land lies near a river, and the whole prairie is virgin soil."
Pahom plied him with questions, and the tradesman said:
"Why, we shall go to any spot you like, and stay there. You must start from that spot
and make your round, taking a spade with you. Wherever you think necessary, make a
mark. At every turning, dig a hole and pile up the turf; then afterwards we will go round
with a plough from hole to hole. You may make as large a circuit as you please, but
before the sun sets you must return to the place you started from. All the land you cover
will be yours."
Pahom was delighted. It-was decided to start early next morning. They talked a while,
and after drinking some more kumiss and eating some more mutton, they had tea again,
and then the night came on. They gave Pahom a feather-bed to sleep on, and the
Bashkirs dispersed for the night, promising to assemble the next morning at daybreak
and ride out before sunrise to the appointed spot.
VII
Pahom lay on the feather-bed, but could not sleep. He kept thinking about the land.
"What a large tract I will mark off!" thought he. "I can easily go thirty-five miles in a
day. The days are long now, and within a circuit of thirty-five miles what a lot of land
there will be! I will sell the poorer land, or let it to peasants, but I'll pick out the best and
farm it. I will buy two ox-teams, and hire two more laborers. About a hundred and fifty
acres shall be plough-land, and I will pasture cattle on the rest."
Pahom lay awake all night, and dozed off only just before dawn. Hardly were his eyes
closed when he had a dream. He thought he was lying in that same tent, and heard
somebody chuckling outside. He wondered who it could be, and rose and went out, and
he saw the Bashkir Chief sitting in front of the tent holding his side and rolling aboutwith laughter. Going nearer to the Chief, Pahom asked: "What are you laughing at?" But
he saw that it was no longer the Chief, but the dealer who had recently stopped at his
house and had told him about the land. Just as Pahom was going to ask, "Have you been
here long?" he saw that it was not the dealer, but the peasant who had come up from
the Volga, long ago, to Pahom's old home. Then he saw that it was not the peasant
either, but the Devil himself with hoofs and horns, sitting there and chuckling, and
before him lay a man barefoot, prostrate on the ground, with only trousers and a shirt
on. And Pahom dreamt that he looked more attentively to see what sort of a man it was
lying there, and he saw that the man was dead, and that it was himself! He awoke
horror-struck.
"What things one does dream," thought he.
Looking round he saw through the open door that the dawn was breaking.
"It's time to wake them up," thought he. "We ought to be starting."
He got up, roused his man (who was sleeping in his cart), bade him harness; and went
to call the Bashkirs.
"It's time to go to the steppe to measure the land," he said.
The Bashkirs rose and assembled, and the Chief came, too. Then they began drinking
kumiss again, and offered Pahom some tea, but he would not wait.
"If we are to go, let us go. It is high time," said he.
The Bashkirs got ready and they all started: some mounted on horses, and some in
carts. Pahom drove in his own small cart with his servant, and took a spade with him.
When they reached the steppe, the morning red was beginning to kindle. They ascended
a hillock (called by the Bashkirs a shikhan) and dismounting from their carts and their
horses, gathered in one spot. The Chief came up to Pahom and stretched out his arm
towards the plain:
"See," said he, "all this, as far as your eye can reach, is ours. You may have any part of
it you like."
Pahom's eyes glistened: it was all virgin soil, as flat as the palm of your hand, as black
as the seed of a poppy, and in the hollows different kinds of grasses grew breast high.
The Chief took off his fox-fur cap, placed it on the ground and said:
"This will be the mark. Start from here, and return here again. All the land you go
round shall be yours."Pahom took out his money and put it on the cap. Then he took off his outer coat,
remaining in his sleeveless under coat. He unfastened his girdle and tied it tight below
his stomach, put a little bag of bread into the breast of his coat, and tying a flask of
water to his girdle, he drew up the tops of his boots, took the spade from his man, and
stood ready to start. He considered for some moments which way he had better go—it
was tempting everywhere.
"No matter," he concluded, "I will go towards the rising sun."
He turned his face to the east, stretched himself, and waited for the sun to appear
above the rim.
"I must lose no time," he thought, "and it is easier walking while it is still cool."
The sun's rays had hardly flashed above the horizon, before Pahom, carrying the
spade over his shoulder, went down into the steppe.
Pahom started walking neither slowly nor quickly. After having gone a thousand yards
he stopped, dug a hole and placed pieces of turf one on another to make it more visible.
Then he went on; and now that he had walked off his stiffness he quickened his pace.
After a while he dug another hole.
Pahom looked back. The hillock could be distinctly seen in the sunlight, with the
people on it, and the glittering tires of the cartwheels. At a rough guess Pahom
concluded that he had walked three miles. It was growing warmer; he took off hisunder-coat, flung it across his shoulder, and went on again. It had grown quite warm
now; he looked at the sun, it was time to think of breakfast.
"The first shift is done, but there are four in a day, and it is too soon yet to turn. But I
will just take off my boots," said he to himself.
He sat down, took off his boots, stuck them into his girdle, and went on. It was easy
walking now.
"I will go on for another three miles," thought he, "and then turn to the left. The spot
is so fine, that it would be a pity to lose it. The further one goes, the better the land
a blacksmith's bellows, his heart was beating like a hammer, and his legs were giving
way as if they did not belong to him. Pahom was seized with terror lest he should die of
the strain.
Though afraid of death, he could not stop. "After having run all that way they will call
me a fool if I stop now," thought he. And he ran on and on, and drew near and heard the
Bashkirs yelling and shouting to him, and their cries inflamed his heart still more. He
gathered his last strength and ran on.
The sun was close to the rim, and cloaked in mist looked large, and red as blood. Now,
yes now, it was about to set! The sun was quite low, but he was also quite near his aim.
Pahom could already see the people on the hillock waving their arms to hurry him up.
He could see the fox-fur cap on the ground, and the money on it, and the Chief sitting on
the ground holding his sides. And Pahom remembered his dream.
"There is plenty of land," thought he, "but will God let me live on it? I have lost my
life, I have lost my life! I shall never reach that spot!"
Pahom looked at the sun, which had reached the earth: one side of it had alreadydisappeared. With all his remaining strength he rushed on, bending his body forward so
that his legs could hardly follow fast enough to keep him from falling. Just as he reached
the hillock it suddenly grew dark. He looked up—the sun had already set. He gave a cry:
"All my labor has been in vain," thought he, and was about to stop, but he heard the
Bashkirs still shouting, and remembered that though to him, from below, the sun
seemed to have set, they on the hillock could still see it. He took a long breath and ran
up the hillock. It was still light there. He reached the top and saw the cap. Before it sat
the Chief laughing and holding his sides. Again Pahom remembered his dream, and he
uttered a cry: his legs gave way beneath him, he fell forward and reached the cap with
his hands."Ah, what a fine fellow!" exclaimed the Chief. "He has gained much land!"
Pahom's servant came running up and tried to raise him, but he saw that blood was
flowing from his mouth. Pahom was dead!
The Bashkirs clicked their tongues to show their pity.
His servant picked up the spade and dug a grave long enough for Pahom to lie in, and
buried him in it. Six feet from his head to his heels was all he needed.
Notes:
1. One hundred kopeks make a rouble. The kopek is worth about half a cent.
2. A non-intoxicating drink usually made from rye-malt and rye-flour.
3. The brick oven in a Russian peasant's hut is usually built so as to leave a flat top,
large enough to lie on, for those who want to sleep in a warm place.
4. 120 "desyatins." The "desyatina" is properly 2.7 acres; but in this story round